What There Is
by Angelas
Summary: Saitama is distant. For Genos, that means the whole world has shifted. [four-shot, saigenos]
1. delina

**this was pretty self-indulgent. i couldn't not write for these two.**

 **oOo**

The hues of noon blossom on the hardwood of the apartment. The curtain's open, a faint breeze wafting in from the little spaces of the window. It is the first month of winter, and so Z-City's chill slithers in.

Saitama sits, his back on the wall, eyes blank as he lingers on the page of a manga he's been pretending to read. He hasn't moved, not since having rolled out of sleep, nor has he bothered to show any other expression since the start of the week.

Genos looks to the side, aware of his staring—aware that Saitama knows he is staring—and instead busies himself with unraveling the bow of his apron. He folds it and carefully sets it into the appointed spot of their closet. He cannot help but watch him again, in secret, the sharp yet benevolent angles of Saitama's mesmeric face. No words as of yet, much less a conversation between them, if not for Genos having hailed him good morning just an hour before. He'd received no answer, of course, just as he'd received no answer the previous day. It makes him feel brittle. Deep down, enfeebled, in abstruse places of his body that he cannot open up nor regulate, and so he'd gone as low as to beseech Dr. Kuseno to _fix_ him.

He thinks now, perhaps, that Dr. Kuseno had only indulged him with some minor adjustment. He feels...no less defective, and nothing has changed.

He serves their bowls of natto and rice and tries to ignore the uncomfortable strain taking form beneath the metal plates of his chest.

 **oOo**

"What's this?" Saitama asks. He swallows, though his reaction to the food is unclear.

"It's natto, Sensei. And rice. With soy sauce and karashi mustard and onion and—"

"Huh." Saitama pokes the natto with the tip of his chopstick, the elastic stretch of it more and more unsightly as he tugs to the right with his arm. "Slimy."

Genos stares down at his lap, the pang of failure decalibrating him from proper _seiza_.

"Please, allow me to create a dish more befitting of you, Sensei. I have displeased you—"

"Nah," says Saitama. "Just not all that hungry."

He stands, abandoning his chopsticks. Genos turns, watching as Saitama grabs his keys and Oppai hoodie. Genos' hands curl to fists on his thighs. He wants to ask where he is going, wants to ask _why_ he is going, wants to tear out the wire that is keeping him pathetically unable to stand or speak up.

"Be back," says Saitama.

He goes down the hall and leaves the apartment.

 **oOo**

The sun sets, purpling the daylight. Hours pass, each dragging longer than the other. The sky coats black, disclosing starlight. With it, Saitama finally comes home.

Genos wakes before Saitama even enters the apartment, feigning sleep. He listens to him loosening the lock, the shuffle of his footsteps as he flings the keys onto the counter. It's careless, louder than any noise Genos has ever heard Saitama make. He lies there, nearly flinching underneath the covers. For a long while Saitama does not move. It's hard not to look, and even harder not to amplify his sensory so that he may at least pick up on the temperament of Saitama's heartbeat. To pretend, at least, like he is standing there beside him, offering comfort, _touching_ , his cheek pressed to where his heart is.

Genos stirs despite his effort. It grips him. The thought, like a sweep of invisible damage. He sinks lower into the blankets, his knees bending to rest closer to his chest.

Saitama notices. Because now he is moving, shambling over to his side of the floor, where Genos had earlier laid out his futon, sheets and pillow cases freshly laundered at the expectation of his return. He lies down. The covers swoosh. Saitama sighs, a quiet, sleepy sound that is enough to let Genos know that his master has found the accommodations pleasurable. He wants to smile. His core feels full.

Minutes pass. Saitama starts to snore. Genos opens his eyes, facing him. He sees him like a gypsum statue, his features dandled by the moonlight. His chest lifts, then sinks, insuperable power abiding like an ocean beneath that. He could crush the earth if he wanted. Could reign terror and carnage and yet...Genos would stay, would frantically cling, and follow behind him. But Sensei is kind. He is selfless and just. Generous, inimitably wise. Sensei is... _beautiful_.

Genos swallows, aware of the exhaust that has begun to let from his shoulders. He cannot stop himself. He slides his fingers away from the fold of his blanket and inches them forward, to where Saitama's fingers lie, too. A paper's breadth separates their touch, yet Genos can feel it as he feels little else, the solacing warmth of Saitama's presence. He trembles, the delicate chinks of his joints shooting signals of dearth, for taction. Still, he knows better. Knows his master's disinclination for most of any physical contact, and has avowed, above all, to respect it.

So he watches. Motionless and overcome with raw sentiment, till the initials of dawn yellow the walls of the room.

Saitama rouses, mumbling about a sale in his sleep. The birds start to cheep.

Genos stops recording.

 **oOo**

"I'm gonna go to King's," Saitama announces one morning.

He slips on his hoodie, not sparing a glance in Genos' direction. Genos looks at him from the open partition, hand already weakening on the ladle he'd been devotedly stirring the pot with.

"But, Saitama-sensei," he starts, "what about—"

"Don't worry about it, dude," Saitama says calmly. "Not feelin' soup. Have at it."

Genos' fingers clench on the ladle. The wood splinters. He stares down at the bubbling miso.

"Shall I start something more delicious for Sensei?" he asks. "Anything Sensei would like, I would quickly make." He grabs the pot, already pouring the contents into the sink in a blind bout of penitence. "I apologize deeply, Saitama-sensei, I have once again unappeased you, I have continuously failed to be of any use, I—"

"Genos, stop that."

He pauses. He looks to where Saitama's standing.

"That..." Saitama's tone is unreadable. He approaches from the other side of the panel and gazes down at the sink. "Was a perfectly good miso."

Genos freezes. Something is different. This is the closest they've been, outside of sharing the space of the floor when they sleep. A subtle crease forms between Saitama's brow. Genos' core starts to whir, indefinite warnings of danger flickering at the crook of his vision.

"Sensei…?"

"Oh well," Saitama huffs. He steps to the side. "Anyway, I'll be back later."

He leaves. The lock clicks in wordless finality. Genos is left standing, eyes slowly lowering to the tepid mélange in the sink. His circuitry tenses. He is unable to move, and it is not from the untellable efforts of battle, but from shame.

 **oOo**

When a thin film of fog pours across the wan afternoon, Saitama still does not arrive home from King's.

Genos resigns himself to sit in front of the television, having already exhausted all outlets of housework. He'd dusted the furniture, rearranged Saitama's mangas by title and volume, meticulously soaped and dried through the pile of dishes, and had watered the cactus. He glances out at the window. The street is greyer than usual. The stark silence of the apartment mimics the air of debris. Genos' gaze drifts back to the television.

He flips through the channels again, and is on the verge of shutting it off in favor of checking the forums, were it not for the tawdry tune of an infomercial that blasts from the tv. He lowers the remote in moderate interest, setting it to rest on his lap. A woman chirps cheerily on the pink and white screen, holding up what looks to be a miniature bottle of pesticide in her manicured hands.

 _And what's this, Linda?_ A disembodied voice asks. The camera hones in on the woman, her full painted lips tugging into a tigerish grin. Genos takes note of her hair, admittedly a few tints darker than his, as well as a few inches longer, but...comparable. She wears a peach dress, the sleeves of it airy and see-through. Her legs bend back and forth, displaying the short kitten heels she is wearing. The camera zooms to the bottle, its cap in the shape of a flower. The label _Delina_ glitters in silver. Not pesticide, then, but some type of perfume.

 _Just our new product, James! An exclusive one-of-a-kind-offer for all of you dedicated housewives watching at home!_

Genos' fingers slide away from the buttons of the tv remote.

 _Lonely? We've all been there. But with our new product, he won't be able to resist! You'll make his night. He won't get enough of just being near you!_

James asks her what the trick to it is, to which Linda responds _there is none, just bat those pretty lashes and watch your man eagerly skip out on his buddies!_ She winks, then delicately twists the cap off from the bottle. She sprays the perfume onto her wrists and neck. _Wow, Linda! Such a spellbinding scent!_

A phone number starts to reel at the top of the screen, along with the shipping and price range. Linda mentions that the last of their stock is already selling out by the second.

Genos gets to his feet, pulling his phone from his pocket. He dials the number, and after three rings, hurriedly takes up their offer of overnight shipping.

 **oOo**

The package arrives a day after. Saitama isn't home, having left someplace with King before Genos had even finished loading up the laundry. He dashes down the steps of the building the instant he's able to sense the delivery drone approaching the precinct.

It's a small box. A vivid mauve color planted in the middle of the desolate sidewalk. He nabs it and runs back inside.

 **oOo**

He sits, then starts to rip through the packaging, uncovering the flacon of perfume from within an even fancier box. He weighs it in his hands, twirling and examining the rosy-clear liquid inside the diaphanous glass. It's exactly like the one Linda had used on herself, the silvery label glimmering under the light. Tentative, Genos sprays a single puff of the fragrance. It's sweet, the odor shifting between floral and plummy. ...He likes it.

He sprays it once on his neck, mirroring Linda's instruction. Then once on both of his wrists. He stands, taking all traces of the packaging with him. He stuffs it into the back of his closet space. He spins on his heel, to go and see how it all might look in the mirror, but pauses. He turns, methodically dressing into his apron.

 **oOo**

He steps into the bathroom and stares at his reflection, the whirring of the dryer he'd recently purchased for Saitama gyring quietly behind him.

He looks no less different, he decides with impatience. Though there is always a chance that he'd missed something during the product's brief demonstration. He reaches and tightens the bow of the apron. It fits to his waist, creating a similar shape to that of Linda's voluptuous figure.

...Better.

He leans over, a couple of inches away from the mirror, and experimentally begins to flutter his lashes. He smiles, sweetly as possible, face growing warm at the thought of his teacher.

"Welcome home, Master…" he tries.

He bends his legs side-to-side. Strange heat builds through his framework. He presses up to the sink. His features have softened. _It's working._

"I've made dinner," he murmurs. "Would you like dessert?"

He can see the synthetic skin of his ears rising in color. His core spins a modicum faster, he swallows and imagines Saitama nodding his head.

"I…" His lip catches between a sliver of teeth, a timid sensation skidding up and down on his spine. "I like you, Sensei… I feel…"

His optics unfocus.

"Around you, I…"

His hand lifts, fingertip caressing his lip. The soft skin is pliant underneath the cool pad of metal. He kneads it. The skin rouses red. It feels...good. Another fingertip. He traces the seam, spreading and tugging. Impulse takes over. He glides the digits into his mouth. They press on his tongue, heated saliva laving the silicone indents hidden between them. His vision rolls. It's foreign, a refractory feeling like he's taking place in something he shouldn't, yet his indicators solicit for more.

He moves them, those same fingers, the tip of his tongue darting into the sensitive joints. A quivering sound forms in his throat. He imagines Saitama there with him, watching, touching, imagines it's Saitama's fingers. He stumbles back at the thought, meeting the wall, and pushes the ministrations further inside. His fingers graze the back of his throat. It soaks him in pleasure. His knees buckle. It feels so good. Heady and lush, a hectic fulfillment in all of the dark and unreachable places the brittle ache had once lied.

He thrusts the two digits, shyly at first, until he is plunging inside of his throat without reservation. He cannot vomit, though he very much drools, unable to stop the flow of saliva as he blubbers and mewls. Choked noises moisten the air. He fucks deeper, triggering his swallowing reflex. His vision crosses. The wet walls of his throat milk on his fingers. It's too much. He snivels. Something is turning, everywhere and nowhere at once, tight and bright and hot and Saitama's powerful fingers rubbing and stretching the places so empty inside him—

The dryer chimes.

He slips from his mouth, the wave of whatever it'd been almost immediately fading. He wipes his mouth, staining the metal. His cooling system kicks in. He keeps his gaze to the floor, avoiding the mirror. He drops to his knees, dragging the hamper away from the washing machine. He unloads the dryer, attempting to ignore the way his wrists noisily clatter, the way the tiny ducts in his mouth insist on producing an abnormal amount of saliva.

He pauses mid-chore. Saitama's hoodie. The one he wears least, but no less Saitama's…

Slow, Genos brings it to his face. His eyes close, focusing on the lingering scent of his teacher. His core glows beneath his shirt, the same timid tingle riding once again at his back. The dizzying scent mixes with the balm of the perfume, creating vivid scenes in his mind. Here, together, as if it were truly real, _finally real_ , Saitama holding him close.

"Sensei…"

He fondles the fabric, reverent of every soft inch. His breath lets, warming the hoodie. He moans quietly, one of his hands traveling down below the planes of his abdomen. He touches. Anywhere, anything. The fabric of his jeans creases silently beneath his palm. He does not have the parts, has not had the urgency nor the desire to have them ever since he became a running piece of destructive machinery, but the phantom sensation alights very faintly the more that he rubs. It's dull, then mildly pleasant, then he's undoing the zipper and button and shoving his hand down his crotch, caressing the flat, supple silicone which makes up the upper part of his pelvis and thighs. His face overheats. A thin stream of smoke lifts from his shoulders.

"Sensei," he babbles. "Saitama-sensei…" His fingers slide under, the same pliant material leading up to a place where an odd sticky slickness is oozing. It dampens the tips of his fingers.

Genos' ears burn.

There, he thinks. He could have him there, inside, could really, _truly_ be able to please him—

"Hah— _sensei_ , I've missed you, I've missed you so much, please, I want— _I want_ —"

"Uh. Genos?"

Genos all but shocks to attention.

"Sensei!"

He kicks on his fans in an instant, though his face continues to burn. He shoves the hoodie behind him, tottering back, hoping beyond possibility that Saitama had perhaps not entirely noticed.

"I did not hear you come in, Master, I—"

Saitama looks at him quizzically, casually sucking on the straw of a Pepsi he might have picked up on the way.

"Whatcha hidin' there?"

It isn't accusing, nor is it angry. Genos swallows. Is he be able to smell it…? Is he pretending it does not disgust him? He keeps his head low and tries to find solace in the way the apron safely conceals his indignity.

"Did ya go shopping?"

Genos shakes his head.

"Oh. Okay."

He turns on his heel.

"I mean, no, Master, I did not go shopping, in fact, I was too busy to even think about shopping, I—"

Saitama turns to face him again. Surely he knows now. Surely he's _read_ him. A sudden crestfall of guilt overwhelms him. He's _lied_. His brow slants, his lip trembles pitiably.

"S-saitama-sensei," his voice shakes, his fingers clench on the hoodie. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm—"

"Uh, dude. It's fine. Really."

Genos looks up for the first time. Hope rises. Fragile, laid raw.

"Look," he says, "I ain't mad. A kid needs trendy clothes, right?"

He slurps up the last of the soda and coolly walks off.

Genos crumbles over the dryer.

 **oOo**

 **leave me a line. it fuels the pyre... ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)**


	2. lovely

**just a heads up: this might or might not end up becoming four parts instead of three. I'll see how it goes.**

 **thank you to the kind, lone soul who reviewed on this website. bless your day.**

 **oOo**

If there is, in fact, a change, it is that Saitama's hours of absence increase. Genos does not try the fragrance again. Though that does not stop him from bringing the perfume up to his neck in those few moments of weakness, nor does it stop him from asking time and again if he could perhaps accompany Saitama to wherever it is he is going.

 _The dojo is totally boring,_ his teacher will say.

 _Dude, you'll take my cred_ , he'll say.

 _Tomorrow, kay?_

Genos looks down. Today is tomorrow. He tightens his hold on the grocery bag and waits at the crosswalk with the rest of J-City's crowd.

 **oOo**

He is swiftly reminded of why this is Saitama's least favorite town to shop bargain. The air is pelagic and the streets reek of salt. There are people everywhere, the water-logged roads suffering from permanent gridlock. Still, the objective is simple. He is to quickly head home, to wait for his master's return and to focus on housework, but the digital billboard blinking just overhead catches his eye. The renovation of a nearby plaza, it lauds, along with an opening sale. Genos recognizes the name. The place'd been destroyed not too long ago, in a similar fashion that it'd been destroyed when the bevy of fishfolk had marauded the town.

He detours. He may find something useful for the apartment, and if he is lucky, something worthy of Saitama's time. The dim afternoon casts a wide range of shadows as he weaves through the bustling sidewalks, painting his stride long and dark on the pavement. Many stop to stare, others dodge from his way while others approach him.

 _Holy hell, is that the S-class hero Genos?_

 _Gosh, he's even prettier in person..._

The walk is a short one. The minimall is an ample collection of specialty shops. Luxe Grunge, cosmetics, and university sportswear. Pricey bistro, as well. He peruses the area, aware that there is now a troop of female civilians tailing his path. He pauses. A boutique to his right, the logo in kittenish cursive. He reaches and pulls the door open. A waft of sweet air fans from inside. He glances, self-pleasingly watching as his preadult following shyly runs off.

 **oOo**

Silence, if not for the pop music that plays from the speakers. Havana, it chants. The clerk stares from her station while she pretends that she's not. The walls are light pink. Mannequin busts stand on display, most of which are clothed in gauzy arrangements of satin and lace. He is reminded of Linda. Her short airy dress, the colors she'd worn on her person as she skillfully demonstrated the proper use of the fragrance.

He blinks. It starts to make sense.

He heads into one of the aisles, fingers already carding through the vast assortment of fabrics. The two other customers at the end of the aisle huddle together, glimpsing at him.

 _Is that the Demon Cyborg?_

 _Ugh. Look at him. He's gorgeous._

 _He's really into it..._

 _Sigh. We're too late, Tam. He's obvs shopping for his girl._

More whispers. The women giggle. Eventually, Genos happens upon a lightly colored silk, wispy at the sleeves. More a robe, he thinks, though it's labeled as a negligee. It's peach enough, just short enough. He weighs it in his hands, studying its measurements, how the loose lace may accommodate to the broader places of his body like his shoulders. He unhooks the hanger, unbothered by the price tag, and calmly walks up to the counter.

"U-uh, good afternoon, mister," the store clerk greets.

"Good afternoon."

She spooks, as if he'd said something shocking.

"Did you...um, find everything alright?"

"Yes."

He lays out the negligee. The silk unfurls on the counter. There are plumes embroidered at the hem. The clerk blushes deeply.

"It's lovely..."

"Yes," he says.

 **oOo**

He arrives home to no sign of Saitama. He quickly undresses.

He slips on the robe, mindful of the delicate ribbon which is to be tied at the waist. He goes to the mirror. The silk falls just enough to shroud the upper part of his legs and the peach sash hugs loosely against him. He stares, studying the arcs of his figure. His thoughts drift. He wonders what Saitama would think. If, like this, his teacher would perhaps have the tiniest inclination to _touch_ him, touch him because...

Genos leans closer, tilting his head to the side.

"Lovely," he murmurs.

He swallows. Reveries reel like a film in his mind. Saitama caressing the silk, Saitama's strong fingers undoing the bow, Saitama pushing the lace very gently off of his shoulder.

 _Lovely_ , he'd say.

Heat, just like the first time. It rides on his spine like a stream of hot fluid. Genos gnaws on his lip, rousing it crimson. His hand finds the smooth plane of his thigh, his fingers lazily traveling up, past the steel, down under _._ His mouth parts. It's there again. That same wetness. He takes his hand away and steps back, hurriedly making his way to the desk area in order to boot up his laptop. He sets it down on the floor, tapping away at the mousepad till he's pulled up the webcam and he's facing himself on the screen. He sits, knees brought to his chin, maneuvering the device so that it will have him fully displayed on the frame.

He opens his legs. There, just beneath the flat plating. He leans back. He uses his hand, fingertips groping the pliable surface surrounding the crease. Black, like his thighs and his neck, easy to miss. He glides his fingers to it. It's tight— _soft_ —softer than any other part of him. His radials spin.

 _As human as possible..._

He presses against it, just enough to coax a quiet sound from his throat. He winces. It's sensitive, much like his mouth, but many times more. He looks to the door, then back to the screen. No one is here, no one would know. He slides his feet on the floor, spreading wider, balancing his weight on one arm. He circles the cleft, toying the slick, though even the feather-like contact causes his whole body to flinch. It feels good, too good, better than any other receptor he'd previously found on himself. He watches the screen, the heady expressions he makes, vision steadily blurring. He thinks of nothing but Saitama, the scent of his hoodie, the dizzying joy that he feels whenever his teacher tells him he'd done something right, the gentle tap he'd once pressed on his forehead the day that they sparred, the sheer power hidden safely beneath it, his touch, enough power to _break_ him—surely enough to _deface_ him—

Genos gasps. Hot vapor whitens the air. He adds pressure, the pad of his fingertip slowly sinking inside him, just barely inside him. It flits to his brain, like sparks in his brain. He whimpers through teeth.

"Hah _, ah—Saitama-sensei—_ "

A knock.

He rebuffs from himself in an instant, shutting the laptop hard enough to leave dents. He stands, disrobing himself before crossing the room to shove the silk into the back of the closet. He feels guilty just stuffing it there, but even this guilt pales in comparison to the need he now has of rinsing his hands—which he frantically does—only to realize his nudity a step from the doorway.

Another knock. Louder this time.

Is it Bang, anxious to deliver a top secret message from the Hero Association? Perhaps Bomb? Are they injured and in need of asylum?

Emboldened, he slips into his clothing and gallantly answers the door.

Oh.

Fubuki.

In green, an overpriced coat draped on her shoulders. The balm in her hair spices the afternoon breeze, an air which no doubt carries to attack the apartment.

Genos narrows the door.

"And what might you want?"

She glares at him.

"Where's Saitama?"

"Sensei isn't home."

She gives him a look, then stands on her toes, her expensive heels creaking dramatically. Still, the woman is short. Genos simply narrows the door a few inches further.

She crosses her arms. "Do you know where he went?"

"No." Adds, "And if I did, it would not be your business."

She does not budge, not even at the tone of his voice. She uncrosses her arms and watches him closely.

"Hm. If _you_ don't know where he is, then _I_ might know where."

Genos' expression contorts in distaste. "How could _you_ possibly have any idea where my—"

She grins at him sharply.

"Have a good afternoon, Demon Cyborg Genos."

She spins on her boot and sashays down the steps.

 **oOo**

Daylight liquesces. Now the sky is a bruise, and silent, and there is nothing to do.

Genos writes in his journal. Careful descriptions of what he'd observed through the day, logistics, some...rhythmical narratives. He hovers over those, as if the air itself might want to peek past his shoulder. He is on the second stanza of slant rhyming "sensei" when the front door of the apartment smacks open.

He closes his journal and stands to attention.

"Welcome home, Sensei!"

Saitama stumbles, leaning and drooping against the divide of the kitchen. It is unordinary. No blood, no sign of injury—of course there's no injury. Genos steps forward, brow furrowing in growing concern.

"Sensei…?"

"Man," mutters Saitama, moving away from both the divide and Genos' reach. "Fubuki really did me in on that one. Musta practiced in college or something."

Genos tautens at the sound of the name. He stands there, in stasis, till Saitama simply hiccups and scuffles right past him. The answer is left in the breeze. Saké, and a faint whiff of the spice that had been in Fubuki's dark hair.

She...really had known where he was. Had likely spent the last several hours with him. Together, in private, and Saitama seemed gratified and in much better spirits than when this had all started, and _—_

Genos starts to feel silly. And heavy. And just barely able to speak when Saitama raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

"She is the Blizzard of Hell, Class B Rank 1, after all..."

"Yeah, totally." It's quiet. Then Saitama crosses the room and opens the fridge. "New outfit?"

Genos looks to his clothes. He had done some quick shopping after...having deterred his small group of followers. A powder blue slipover with a gunmetal zipper and black Diesel jeans.

"Yes," he says. He can't help but smile. "I...wanted to look good for when you returned home, Sensei."

It's subtle, but Genos notices Saitama pause in his rummaging.

" _Man_ ," he groans, swiftly resuming, "where the heck is all that leftover Kambu from last week—"

Genos steps forward.

"Shall I make more for us, Master?"

"Nah." He stands, idly scratching his cheek. "Hey. Know what? Let's have some pizza."

Joy shoots into Genos' spine like a thunderclap. His lips tug, likely showing too many teeth. Saitama stares at him, probably put off, but Genos cannot help himself—does not _want_ to—it is the first time in weeks in which his teacher has offered some of his time and the anticipation itself is voltaic.

His eyes sting. He straightens his posture despite it.

"Yes, Sensei!"

 **oOo**

The timer dings. Genos brings the pie to the table, careful not to smear the oven mitts with oil and grease. The salami sizzles, the toppings melting easily into the doughy hot layers of provolone cheese. Genos sits, placing his palms on his lap. He steadies his chin, confident in the alloted size of each portion. He's also confident of having made the most of the bacon he'd unearthed from the back of the fridge. He holds still and waits for Saitama's appraisal.

"Wow," says Saitama, not looking away from the pizza. "Did you add to it? Last I remember this thing was pretty sad-looking."

"Of course I added to it, Sensei. Do you not approve of the modifications?"

"Absolutely not the case, dude," says Saitama. "It looks...straight off of the premium menu. You know, like in the pictures."

Genos tries not to smile.

"Sensei," he starts, "please have the first slice."

Saitama does without prelude. He unsticks a wedge and takes a considerable bite before chewing. The way Saitama briskly absorbs it and goes again for another is enough to tell Genos that his teacher has found the food appetizing. Invigored, he culls a single slice for himself, nibbling neatly.

"Shitty weather lately."

Genos looks up. "Yes. But at least it seems to keep the monsters at bay. I have not come across a challenging threat in some time."

"Same."

Silence.

"Sensei."

"Yeah?"

"Have I done something wrong? To upset you?"

"Uh. No?"

"Oh." Genos reaches for another slice of the pie, though it is not out of hunger. "Well, I thought maybe since… I feel as though..." He peers at the floor. "Lately, I..." He shakes his head. "Nevermind. It's nothing, Sensei."

"Oh. Okay."

It's quiet. But it becomes a good kind of quiet. Genos sits back politely and watches Saitama have the last slice. He does not care that he is blatantly staring. They have eaten together—are together. Right now, just them. The notion itself laves Genos with a sudden flood of fulfillment. His thighs squeeze, his hands push back and forth on his lap. Even in the pall of this monotone light Saitama is remarkably handsome. His firm skin and dark eyes, his broad shoulders.

"What are you squirming about?"

"I'm just...so _glad_ ," it's almost a gasp, "Sensei spending time with me."

Saitama side-eyes him, then turns, choosing to thoroughly busy himself with the last bits of crust.

"Anyway. Thanks, dude. This was really good."

Genos beams. A soft sound lets from his throat. It causes Saitama to glance at him a second time, causes Saitama to seem a little warmer at the cheeks. Genos wonders if he should switch on his central air conditioning, to cool the room, just in case.

"Sensei, may I ask you something?"

"Um. Sure."

"Women, do you desire them?"

"Huh? Yeah."

"Why?"

"They're...you know, pretty."

Genos fiddles with his jeans, asks, "With blonde hair?"

"Why not."

"What about...women who are heroes?"

"I guess?"

Genos nods importantly. "And if the hero were a cyborg? Like myself?"

"Uh…"

"And pretty?"

"Genos—"

"Sensei, please, just answer." Genos keeps his head down, unable to look Saitama in the eye. Had he blood, he would know it to be pulsing. Instead, his visual receptors suggest microcircuited strain.

"I mean." Saitama coughs against his fist. "If she...w-were nice. Hah. Look. It's getting a little late. Actually, it's really late. Maybe we should stop with the really weird questions and—"

"Sensei," says Genos, perhaps graver than he should. "Please be serious. It is important to me that you answer with complete honesty."

He peeks in Saitama's direction. Saitama tugs at his collar, airing his neck, as if the apartment were too hot to be in.

"I mean, whatever, right? Weirder things have happened."

Genos smiles. He straightens, scooting back so that he may bow.

"Thank you, Sensei."

 **oOo**

Genos wakes to Saitama getting up in the middle of the night. And though the occurrence itself does not pass as neither odd or unusual, this time the door of the restroom locks as soon as it shuts.

Saitama never locks the door when he uses the restroom. Genos lies still. He listens, but even after a while of listening there is no stark indication of Saitama relieving himself, nor does he come back to bed.

Genos knows he isn't supposed to. Shouldn't even _think_ he is supposed to, out of both esteem and respect for his teacher, yet...

Genos amplifies his auditory function.

He hears him. Saitama's breath letting out in labored huffs, the distinct slide of skin rubbing against skin. Saitama is...pleasing himself, so fast and so thoroughly that it has him panting like this, as if he were in the throes of exhaustion. Genos stares at the ceiling. It plays out in front of his eyes, clear as live footage. Saitama's hand around himself, filling his fist, dampening the open spaces of his capable fingers. Genos' brow slants, his feet brush up and down on the sheets. He nips on his lip, left hand gliding up to his chest, his neck, stopping just shy of his lips. He fondles the skin, pinching and stroking, shutting his eyes before carefully pressing two fingers onto his tongue. His mouth is so warm—could be made to be _warmer_. He thrusts the digits down to the knuckle, then sucks, dipping in and out of his throat to match the exact pace of Saitama. It feels nice, so nice that his legs lift from the futon. They squeeze at the thigh, restlessly seeking some form of stimulus from the silicone tracts of his groin.

He hears Saitama sigh, hears him stroke himself harder. Genos arcs to the side, adding a third finger to muffle the mewls undulating at the back of his throat. Drool drips to his chin, thoughts pulse in his brain like a heartbeat. Saitama with his cock in his hand, Saitama using _him_ instead of his hand. Whenever he'd like, _however_ he'd like— _right now_ —a warmer place, a tighter hole to fuck into.

Genos' vision crosses, unable to force down the sniffle that huffs like a sob through his nose. He knows that he's wet, that the slick now dampens the underside of his thigh, saturating the thin cloth of his nightclothes. He wants Saitama inside, on top, making use of his mouth, crushing delicate wires and displacing grooves. He is so close, so dizzy and mindless with _something_ that Genos does not entirely notice the bathroom faucet being turned on and then off.

The bathroom door opens, creaking too loud in the dark. Genos immediately dislodges his fingers away from his mouth and flops to his side, feigning rest mode under the guise of his covers.

He hears Saitama shuffle over to his side of the floor. He quietly settles, lying eagle-spread on his back. Genos doesn't open his eyes, doesn't dare to, though he cannot help but leave his hand where it lies, loosely clutching onto Saitama's blanket.

He folds his knees to his chest, slowly angling closer, and tries not to wriggle uncomfortably when a cooled string of moisture slithers to the back of his thigh

 **oOo**

For the longest time, Genos pretends to be dormant. Eventually, he hears Saitama shift on his futon to face him. Genos does not have to check, only feels the pull of his teacher's attention as one would feel an efflux in climate.

The window is open enough for a draft to slip in. The wind ferries through it, an exhale of dew. Genos knows Saitama gazes at him, knows he must try to make it seem as though he doesn't actually know. To not open his eyes, to not look back, too. It hurts—he _wants_ to—

Rustling. Movement.

Saitama's fingers inch to Genos' own, finding them where they lie flat on the hardwood. Soft, indisputable—Saitama's touch. It lingers; just their fingertips brushing, yet the contact is beyond any sensation Genos could ever infer, could ever ask for.

"Sensei…"

It's only a whisper, barely a sound. Genos can almost feel himself breaking.

Like this. To stay like this forever…

Hours pass. Saitama sleeps. Their fingers do not separate.

 **oOo**


	3. the game

**this will be four parts instead of three. also, my beta is the best.**

 **for the kind soul who reviews: yes! I cross-post to ao3, where the fandom and myself are a lot more active(:**

 **oOo**

After sunset, the sky is denuded of the stars and the moon. All darkens bluer. The air is damp, the window is open. Cool wind suspires the room, here where Fubuki sits to the side, legs fitly folded against her. She scrapes on her fingernails, shaping them sharply, the scratching of the nail filer much louder than the repetitious music blaring from King's PS Vita. Beside him, Saitama mashes the buttons of his own borrowed one, expression pinched in stony conviction.

It'd been weeks since Saitama had last been okay with anyone lounging around the apartment like this, much more, having answered the knock on the door without waiting for Genos to do it. Genos supposes he would not have found the occurence _that_ disconcerting...had it not been Fubuki Saitama had allowed to strut in, as if the apartment were a place for her, too.

Now she lingers as a moth would linger, periodically leaning away from her nails to scrutinize Saitama's game screen.

"You suck," she says.

"Hand it over," she says.

"Join the Blizzard Group," she winks, "and I'll take down King."

Genos scowls. Why his teacher endures such an ill-mannered person, he will not understand it. His jaw shifts. Acid pools at the tip of his tongue. Still, he lowers his head and swallows his insults. It is not in his place to question Saitama's occupational ties, though that does not mean he will start to accept them. He averts his attention from the scene the woman is making and busies himself with folding the day's load of laundry. He uses his lap for better results, restarting the process whenever a wrinkle emerges.

He...cannot help but think about what happened.

Again and again, reliving the memory of the previous night as if its authenticity were to fade if he didn't. He peeks discreetly in Saitama's direction, wondering if perhaps Saitama thinks of it, too, if perhaps Saitama might even... _remember_ it—

"Don't you ever get tired of that?"

He looks to the side. Fubuki moves closer to him, blowing the dust away from her nails.

"No," he says, profoundly insulted. "It is a _privilege_."

She scoffs, shooting an eyebrow at him.

"Is that what he tells you? I'd rather eat glass than do housework."

Genos smirks at her darkly.

"Is that so?"

Fubuki seems as though she is about to give a menacing answer to that, but Saitama's wail of defeat interrupts her.

"Gotcha," says King, resting his head on the wall. "Too slow, Saitama. You've gotta learn how to counter, that guy's too big for aerial dodges."

"B-but! I totally had you cornered, man, down to like _5 HP_ —"

"Nya-Nya Kitty's just faster. My victory was determined before the match had even started. Also, Ogre's combos suck."

"Gah!"

Genos sits up, fist pledged in courage.

"Master, shall I champion in the name of your honor? Surely we can beat him together—"

Saitama sighs. "No, dude. You'll just make it worse."

Genos deflates, head hanging low.

"One sec, King. Toilet break."

Genos watches from under his bangs as Saitama walks past him. The bathroom door closes. The apartment falls quiet. Genos straightens again, though not as upright as before. His shoulders droop, hands moving slower. He can feel Fubuki staring at him. He tugs a pair of pants onto his lap and resumes his duty in silence.

"You're like a kicked puppy," she tells him, and King amps up his game at that moment, creating a smoke screen of noise. "And he sure does kick you a lot. Doesn't he?"

Genos frowns.

"Sensei is kind. He does not kick me."

"Mhm."

Genos pauses. He peers over at King. He's engrossed in his game, though the thrum of his Engine begins to hum very faintly.

"Blizzard of Hell."

Fubuki carries on with her nails, albeit more prudently.

"What."

"Touching," he starts. He wades through his thoughts, for words, the right ones. "In the way of tactility. Not much, perhaps barely. But…" His gaze drifts to the side. "Is it… What is it?"

"How do you mean?" she asks. "And why?"

When he doesn't respond, she puts down the filer and scoots a lot closer, crowding his space. Genos bristles. He has disclosed too much to the woman already. His fingers tense on his thighs. The guilt is an itch in his spine, but the desire to _know_ is rapacious. It is inappropriate. He has overstepped. He is selfish. There is nothing worse. He has _failed_ , he will stand and beg to the floor for Saitama's forgiveness—

"Just show me, you idiot. It's not like—"

He places the tips of his fingers atop hers.

" _Oh_."

Her eyes go wide, the green in them expanding while the pupils contract. She turns quickly to where King yet sits (preoccupied), then back to Genos, lower, to where their fingers interlap. Her throat agitates: down, up. Her lips form a hard unreadable line.

Genos takes his hand away.

"Well?"

She immediately tucks her hands into her lap, as if he'd burned her.

"Well, it's…"

She looks down. Her hair shrouds her eyes.

"Affection," she utters.

 **oOo**

The skyline blackens, pitch as the asphalt. Fubuki stands, shutting the window and untying the drapes.

Saitama and King are nose-deep in their umpteenth Street Fighter match, the last of the chocolate cookies Genos had baked awaiting their fate on the plate shared between them. Fubuki dresses into her coat as a way to declare her departure, to which only King glances up to acknowledge. He lowers his Vita, thumbs still directing the analog sticks with casual effort.

"Night," he says. "Um. Need a walk home?"

She scoffs. "Don't be ridiculous."

She leans on her hip, tapping her foot on the floorboard. Seconds knock by.

...Is she waiting for something?

"We're still—we're still not done discussing your enlistment, Saitama!"

Saitama doesn't look up. "What enlistment?"

She pouts, crossing her arms on her chest.

"Unbelievable," she seethes, though it's only loud enough for Genos to hear.

She twirls on her boot, ready to march her way out in a flurry of expensive white fur and prismatic jewelry, but pauses.

"You," she points. "Come here."

Genos looks to Saitama. "Sensei…?"

"Dude," he says, mashing a crescendo of buttons. "She's talking to you. Not me."

Genos gets to his feet, leaving behind a t-shirt he'd been carefully sewing.

Fubuki leads him out to the doorway, standing before him under the flickering light of the tenement. It is out of the ordinary. Genos watches her closely while Fubuki watches him back. She searches his face. The woman's features progressively soften, as if she had found what she wanted, though her gaze remains dark with what Genos can only assume is frustration.

"Look," she finally starts. It's hushed, in a calmer demeanor than Genos had guessed. "I don't know how you _work_ … But. You look pretty clueless and I doubt you'll get a competent lowdown about the eel and the cave by our mutual friend here." She sighs, looking off to the side for a moment. "So. Here. Just in case."

She steps in, as if to nudge him back with her shoulder, but instead reaches forward, underhandedly pressing a small squarish wrapper into his palm. He closes his fingers around it, playing along, and stashes the item into his pocket without bringing it up to the light. She steps back, as if pleased by his use of discretion, and straightens, chin leveled high.

This isn't over.

Genos opens his mouth, to demand what this is about, what she's handed to him, what this even has to do with Saitama, her hidden objective—

Her back is already to him. Her hips swing to the pull of her stride.

"Sweet dreams, Demon Cyborg," she calls to the night.

 **oOo**

He has not been given a gift for as long as he can recall, not outside of fanmail, and not since having been younger, a powerless boy of fifteen.

He does not look at it, or touch it, nor does he let himself wonder what the packet might be. It feels heavy in his pocket. It is something that he has that Saitama does not know of. It feels wrong, but it also feels exciting. He weathers the temptation to go into the bathroom to discover what it is, and contemplates on simply tossing the thing into the trash without ever allowing himself the satisfaction.

He glances over at Saitama.

Affection, she'd said...

Genos decides that he will keep it, for now.

 **oOo**

It isn't long after that Saitama gets up. He slips into something warmer, grabbing his keys from the bowl on the counter. King stands, too, politely bringing any used plates to soak in the sink. Genos watches from his spot on the floor, left with nothing to do for the rest of the evening.

Saitama glances at him.

"Um. You okay?"

Genos nods. "Yes, Sensei."

Saitama shoves his hands into his hoodie, shifting back and forth on his feet. "Erm. Do you need anything? You know, from the vending machines?"

"No, Sensei. Thank you."

"You sure?"

"Yes, Sensei."

"You're just...gonna sit there?"

Genos tilts his head to the side. "Would Master prefer me in a more engaging position?"

Saitama half-chokes. King makes himself busy with observing the many dots on the opposite wall.

"Don't—I told you not to call me that!"

Genos lowers his head.

"I…" he sighs. "Okay. Just. Rarely. Alright? Like, almost never."

Genos looks at his teacher and smiles.

"Uh." Saitama steps back, receding into the genkan, and Genos knows he will likely be gone until late in the night. "Be back, dude."

"Yes, Sensei."

The door clicks when it shuts and Genos is left on his own. The room is so quiet he can hear the hum of his core, the faint swishing of trees from beyond the thin window. He stands, tugging the drapes to the side to gaze at the road down below. Saitama crosses the street that will take him out of Z-City with King rolling along on his bike. Saitama shouts and flails as he talks, and it seems as though King mostly listens. Genos' hand props on the window, his forehead pressing onto the glass.

Maybe...he should have asked if he could join them. Could have asked if maybe Saitama would be interested in having some pizza like last time, or watching a movie, or playing a boardgame, or simply...staying.

He watches until Saitama fades into the uninhabited distance. Now he's alone. Genos steps back, ambling over to sit on the desk chair in order to boot up his laptop. He clicks his way through the updates with his cheek on his palm till he lands on the search engine's cursor. His fingers hover over the keyboard. He exhales and types in _affection_.

There are countless results, but Genos settles on the one that seems the most unrefuted. His eyes follow the lines of the article, and in a gradual earthfall of heat, is well aware of the steam that lifts from his shoulders as he breathlessly reads:

 _Affection, attraction or of its variances, wherein is often associated with a pattern of love amounting to more than goodwill or friendship._

He stares at the screen, all but in stasis, then swivels to the left on the chair. The nodes in his wrists are already shaking by the time he slowly and tentatively reaches into the back of his jeans, sliding the wrapper Fubuki had earlier given him out of his pocket.

A condom.

Blueberry flavored and labeled "XL".

Were Genos' fans not whirring on maximum moments before, now they are blasting on overdrive. He swallows (and it is so _difficult_ —all of the raw electrical currents vacillating up and down through his spine), and feels the back of his throat growing wetter. He swivels the chair a half-circle more, coming face to face with the closet. It starts to equate, like counterpoise in his brain, and he finds himself desperately standing, reaching into the back of the closet for the box of perfume, as well as the negligee.

He stares at both items. Could it be true? Is there the slightest, most insubstantial chance in all of the world that—at this point in time—Saitama could, for him, if even a _little_ —

Genos sinks to his knees. He clutches both things close to his chest, and attempts not to blacken the lace with his tears.

* * *

King's place is pretty cool, even if it's messy.

In fact, the giant flat-screen tv makes up for the messy (and so does the flashy HD). And the 22nd floor view of whatever goes on in M-City isn't so bad. Not that Saitama ever bothers to gaze out into the distance or anything like that. Not that he's doing that now, the glitz and lights of the screen sequentially blurring into glowy steel shapes and weird steamy exhaust, like the sort of stuff that comes out of—

"You're losing," says King.

Saitama blinks. "It's part of the strategy."

"Not that I mind," goes King. "But...you come over a lot. More. You come over more."

"I know, right? It's wild."

King sighs. "Thought it'd be nice to know why. Your place has food, better flooring."

Saitama shrugs. "Your set's just better than mine."

"You come over for my television?"

Damn. Ogre's down to a third of HP. He'll drop at this point, brought to erasure by a skinny cat lady. Saitama aggressively swerves the controller, pulling hard on the wire. That always helps.

"I mean. You know. It's nothing."

King side-eyes him. "Uh-huh."

"Okay fine. Maybe it's something."

King puts his controller down, maneuvering his troublesome character with just two of his fingers.

"Is it Genos?"

"Huh?" It comes out a little squeakier than Saitama would like. "Of course not. Totally nothing to do with Genos." He waves his hand around, near King's face, to prove his point.

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, maybe like...two percent to do with Genos."

"Go on."

Saitama feels put on the spot. His breath gets a little cagey. He spams the jump command to cope, just barely landing a kick onto the dumb face of King's character.

"He's. I mean. I think he's growing?"

King raises an eyebrow at him, though Saitama can't be sure. Looking away now could cost him the the upper hand of the battle.

"Saitama. Cyborgs don't grow."

"Sure," he says. "But I guess he just looks...cool. Cooler, lately. In those edgy clothes he gets. I think it's stressing me out. Like...phobia, right? That's what it's called. 'Cause it's all so expensive."

He shudders and hopes that King sees it, but all King does is shrug one shoulder, probably not buying it.

"Genos is a good-looking guy."

"Uh. Y-yeah."

"Nice hair."

Saitama gives it a nod.

"Nice face."

He swallows.

"All leg."

God, yes.

"Built-in cooling system."

Fuck.

"Keeps the place clean."

 _Fuck._

"Great cook, too."

Now that's just too far.

"I'm straight," blurts Saitama.

King looks at him, almost bored.

"Gonna make a move, or should I go for it myself?"

Saitama freezes— _really freezes_ —leaving Ogre to his sacrificial death. He gapes at King, but King just looks at him.

"How...wha— _what?_ "

King sighs. "The game, Saitama." He turns back to the screen.

Heat evanesces from Saitama's fists. His fingers loosen. He looks down, realizing the PS controller now lies dented in his grip, a firmer clench away from cracking.

"Right," he says, burying the evidence. "The game."

 **oOo**


	4. affection

**it's a little on the long side. but here it goes.**

 **oOo**

"Anyway, uh. Thanks for having me, dude."

Saitama bides at the doorway, feeling only a little bit guilty at how late it already is. He'd have shoved anyone out of his place hours ago, were he King, or conveniently sat back and let Genos take care of it.

Genos… That's right. Maybe not go there right now.

"Anytime," says King. "Could be that you spare the controller next time."

Saitama nods, because _fuck, of course he would notice_. He _would_ offer to try and find a semi-new one on bargain, but the damage was chiefly an aesthetical one. And King seems…laid-back about it. Man. King is the best.

They stand there a moment, beneath the dull amber light of the hallway, suspended in silence. Saitama shifts foot to foot. The carpet creaks. It feels like he's standing in a creepy hospital corridor, being recorded.

"So, yeah. I'll just. Head home. You know. To sleep."

King nods. And is that a smug look on his face? Saitama turns, not really wanting to stick around for another round of cross-examination. He yawns, dragging his feet to the elevator. He steps through the fancy steel doors and pokes at the button that will ferry him down to the exit.

 **oOo**

It's dank, cold. The sidewalk crunches under his stride. Everything unrelated to after-dark retail is closed, and only the white lambent glow of vending machines illumines the street that will take him back to Z-City.

It's not a nice street. The walls drip with moisture and the walkway is narrow. There's junk everywhere, chock-full of bikes and overfilled dumpsters. Neon signs, too. Flickering pinks, coquettish purples. The art is appealing. He idles a bit. Cabaret plays in low heavy strums. The temptation is there. Kind of.

He takes the next turn. The music grows faint. It feels like a loss. But he knows what the mirror reflects—what it doesn't reflect—and is, at the end of the day, uninterested in handing out cash. Funny. When he'd fared a couple years younger, freshly ridiculed after an interview and lugging a suitcase along, he would not have thought twice. He'd be in there now, off in some corner getting a lapdance, trying to get himself smashed. But all of that was before becoming a hero, before going bald, before the mosquitoes.

He wonders if Genos is already sleeping.

If he's all rolled up in a ball like he usually is— _hah, like a spring roll_ —just a few strands of glossy blond hair peeking out of the top of his blanket—

Oh look. He's thinking again.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, focusing on things like cabbage and hot pot and how much farther he'll have to wade in the dark till he finally encounters something to punch a new hole in.

 **oOo**

He's there pretty quick. Only a weird lemur-thing lurked a couple blocks back, likely not much of a threat. It talked a lot, so he flicked it, a show of bloody confetti smearing itself on an unfortunate wall.

He climbs up the stairs, missing the red-hot immersion of King's fight games already. He'll have to go back again. Probably tomorrow, right before breakfast.

He stops at the door. Dim light blooms from the space at the bottom. Someone's awake. Or forgetful. Either way, it's a little unusual. Genos never leaves the light on this late.

Saitama steps in, kicking out of his shoes. Something smells nice. Floral and plummy, like the type of stuff Fubuki would not want to spray on her neck. Did Genos sneak a girl in...? He scuffs past the kitchen, stretching his arms, too sleepy to speculate. He freezes at the end of the hall.

Genos. Standing there, tall and silver and naked if it weren't for the peach lingerie he is dressed in. His fingers lift to fiddle in front of him, the lace hitching up to caress the smooth chrome of his thighs. His gold irises glow, reflecting soft yellow light onto his cheekbones.

"Sensei..." he whispers, and his lips are so _full_.

He takes a single step forward, revealing delicate toes. The sleep heaves out of Saitama, something else wants to heave in his shorts.

"Oh fuck, sorry, man, sorry, I didn't mean to walk in on you—"

He turns, arrowed straight for the door. That perv doctor, surely he knows what he's done, on a nineteen-year-old boy who doesn't even _know_ what he's done, the _nerve_ —

Saitama's walking, no, he's _bounding_ , but Genos is already hot on his trail.

"S-sensei, please wait, I want—I _want_ you to see me!"

Saitama keeps moving. This is bad. So bad. Genos reaches for him, clasping his wrist with both of his hands with a force that would have a lesser man tugged around like a leaf.

"Sensei, _please_ —"

It's raw, those two words repeated so many times that Saitama stops listening.

" _Saitama-sensei_ —"

It's shaky this time, choked, as if he were in pain. It's...unlike any other sound Genos has made, oceans away from his stoic (if impassioned) demeanor. Saitama stops, just past the kitchen, and Genos stops with him. He turns, and quickly regrets it. The gold eyes are bigger, dark lashes longer, the cheeks flushed pink like a doll's. He looks at Saitama, brow pinched in a poignant mix of fear and anxiety. And Genos… Genos is _never_ afraid, never uneasy. Genos is—he's—

Saitama swallows, vaguely aware that he is being lead back to the room. Little by little, as if he'd lost his way in a tunnel, till mere inches separate him from silk-covered steel.

Genos takes a tentative hold of his hand. He places it onto his cheek. It's soft, but this part Saitama already knew from their spar, the synthetic skin smushing against the support of his palm. Genos presses on it, petting himself, strands of wheat hair grazing Saitama's fingers. He flutters his lashes, slowly and sweetly, as if he had studied a porno, then carefully tilts his head and opens his mouth.

The world closes in. Slick heat, too hot to be human. Genos sucks on his finger— _revering_ his finger—then two. A pinkish tongue darts between the open space, licking and curling, creating lewd images in Saitama's fog-addled brain. Saliva stretches across the two digits. Guilt swells in his heart. He's at least half-hard off of his student blowing his fingers like this. He follows Genos' small mouth, the way that it worships, and is unable to stop the stifled gasp that escapes from his throat.

Thin fumes braid through the room.

"Sensei…?" It's out of breath, tongue greedily lapping for more between every syllable. "Do you...feel good? Do I make you feel good?"

Shorn to many stages of shame by the question—the _way_ that it's asked—Saitama jerks back his hand, letting it fall to his side. It only causes Genos to try and chase after it.

He's sinking. Losing sound judgment. This is obviously wrong. Stupid Genos. If only he knew, and fuck, this is his _own_ fault, he's older, his _teacher_ , he should know better, he should say something smart—

Saitama's mind is so fried that he does not entirely notice Genos dropping down to his knees, his fingers frantically working his fly as if the fate of the earth depended on it.

"Gen—ah, stop—"

It's hardly coherent. Genos doesn't let up.

Fuck. _Fuck_. He's hard, so turned-on that the room is already losing its shape, would it—is it really _so_ _wrong_ —

"I said stop!"

Saitama shoves back. Genos falls on his ass with a considerable thud, skidding some distance away on the floor. He stares, eyes so wide that it seems as though he is either profoundly confused or on the verge of dissolving. All is quiet. Saitama...doesn't know what to say, how to fix it. So he twists on his heel, readjusting his clothes in a second attempt at leaving. At hiding.

"Sensei!" shouts Genos, already following. "Please, let me try again! I will—I will do it better!"

It's so wrought with fragility that Saitama feels it right in his gut. He swings around, opening his mouth to make it _clearer_ , but Genos is already diving to his knees. Warm metal works on him again, though this time Genos leans in intimately, arching his back to create friction with the experimental up and down of his chest. Much as if...as if he had—which technically he _does_ —but—

This kid.

Saitama does it without thinking. He draws Genos up by both shoulders, cautious of the strength in his grip. Genos blinks at him, doe-eyed and no less maddening. His mouth is wet, his breath is heavy. It takes Saitama entirely too long to realize their proximity, to understand that he is just as lost for air as Genos.

Saitama lets him go, granting a respectable distance between them.

"Listen," he says.

And Genos does. His gaze is intense, so fierce its hue is sanguine. Like...an unchaste creature staring back from the blackness of a cave, waiting. Saitama swallows, trying to urge away a really weird hard-on. It's obvious that Genos is exercising some grand control within himself to keep from moving, to do as he is told, to keep from leaping forward. A tingle licks along Saitama's spine. This is brittle ground.

"I don't…" He takes a breath. "Own you, Genos. Or deserve whatever—" he gestures at the space between them, " _this_ is. This whole crush thing. You're, like. Young. Maybe a little lonely 'cause you coop yourself in here most the time, but I mean. Go out, ya know. Go to a bar. You're a nice guy. Like, a really nice guy. And I'm…" He sighs. "I'm just some old guy with nothing to teach you."

Genos looks devastated. Good… Good.

"So," he continues, scratching his ear. "Yeah. Find someone with a little more hair—"

"I like you." And the words are so tender and many notes softer than Genos' baritone voice. "I don't think I could make it any truer, Sensei, but I _only_ like you. You are the most remarkable man to set foot on this earth, the strongest and most capable Hero. I have never met anybody like you, nor will I ever. I will follow you blindly, I will uphold you and become strong at your side. I like you." He takes a careful step closer. "I like you so mu—" He shakes his head. "I _love_ you, Saitama-sensei. I love you so much that—" he grabs at his chest, bunching the lace, where his heart would lie, if he had one. "I feel _affection_. It feels broken—it _hurts_ —"

Saitama could not handle a second more of this if he tried.

He shuts off. Just. Turns it all off. And stares off, into the shallow dark of the half-curtained window.

When did the streetlight get fixed? Did some snazzy drone from H.A. buzz by and use its tiny tool hands to switch out the bulb? Maybe Mumen's behind it. Mumen always does neat stuff like that when no-one's around…

"Sensei, please say something, please!"

Saitama's gaze drifts back to his shouting disciple, feeling very much like he is floating through air. He must be wearing the (exceedingly) wrong expression, because Genos hurls forward, panic limned into every pale inch of his face.

"I—I am sorry—I misread the situation and allowed myself to be swayed like a fool. It is my fault. I will not say anything like that again, I have brought shame unto you, I will keep my hands and my mouth and my words to myself, Master Saitama, I am sorry—"

Genos is one with the floor at this point, folded into a swaddle of peach plume and perfume at Saitama's ankles. He trembles (or at least it seems that way from this angle), practically sobbing the oil reserve out of his eyes.

It's...stressful. If stress were ever an advisable reason for rocketing out of the stratosphere, Saitama thinks that he would. Like that one time with Boros. Being on the moon was pretty cool.

"Genos," mutters Saitama. "Stop groveling."

...Perhaps he'd muttered too faintly.

"Sensei, please do not banish me!" his dramatic disciple resumes. "Sensei may punish me henceforth as he so desires. In fact, I will gladly endure any manner of discipline Sensei may choose. Sensei may confiscate my journal, to be expunged if the sacrifice be, but please—Saitama-sensei— _please_ find it in your heart—"

Saitama sighs, lowering himself to the floor. Genos stares up at him, hiccuping, sniffling, as if he were perfectly ready for the end of the world.

This is it. This is what it all roils down to.

Saitama dips forward and finds Genos' lips with his own. And yeah, they're greasy with cyborg-y tears, too sticky and black to be entirely pleasant, but Genos' hair smells faintly of coconut soap, and oh look, the candy perfume that he's doused in is already making him crazy.

Saitama pulls away, one finger chiding.

"Shut up, okay? You're forgetting the twenty-word rule."

Genos slams their mouths together again.

 **oOo**

Time is molasses, and Genos' mouth is no help. The artificial saliva is reminiscent to some kind of lube, imparted with flavor, slightly of mint. Perhaps to allow better moisture for speech for a throat that isn't organic, Saitama thinks, surely Kuseno isn't _that_ much of a perv.

Genos slides his tongue over, then under, requesting attention. He follows Saitama's lead, sat attentive in seiza, hands alternating between grasping at nothing and wanting to hold Saitama's face. He squirms, too caught up in overassessing than simply going for it.

"Sensei," he sighs, separating just enough to allow Saitama a gasp of fresh air. "This is so wonderful. I learn so much from you, _thank you_ —"

Saitama rolls his eyes and takes the moment to wipe Genos' cheeks with his sleeve. The oil wipes easily, leaving no stain. Not on Genos, anyway. Genos watches him closely, eyes rounder, irises smaller and sharper and dimmer, all but writhing in his need to continue their session. Saitama leans, nipping a pink lower lip with his teeth, to which Genos whines quietly. He opens his mouth (comically wide), and Saitama indulges, tonguing him down till they're both on the floor, Genos beneath him.

He's wary of the position they fall in. Saitama drapes his left arm across Genos' chest to keep himself balanced, legs to the side, not allowing their lower bodies to touch. This is just...kissing, after all. Just making out. Totally normal.

He grabs Genos by the back of the hair with his free hand, keeping him steady, and soon brushes against the limber material which makes up his neck. It's not a lot different from flesh, though it is firmer, smoother, soft with faux muscle and clearly designed to sustain a great deal of damage. It also smells really, _really_ good. Like girl. And Genos. _God_.

Saitama slips from their kiss, mouthing his way to the side of the neck, breathing and tasting. He sucks, testing the waters, careful not to harm anything. Genos bucks his hips in an instant, a feverish mewl stuttering out through his teeth. Wow. Is he sensitive here? The lingerie rides higher along his silvery thighs. Saitama looks away just in time, not so avid at the sight of a dick.

"S-sensei," huffs Genos, "please, I want to have sex."

Saitama just about chokes on his spit.

"Wha—"

Genos peers down at him, still kept in place by the hand in his hair. "Please fuck me," he says. He gnaws on his lip, rolling his hips in impatience.

Saitama blinks, gulping the sudden fuzz of arousal away from his throat. "Um. I…" He sits up, ready to muster all that he has to steer clear of where the situation is going.

Genos apparently takes that as cue. He gets to his feet and strides over to where the futons are rolled, dutifully offering the use of his own. He spreads his blanket upon it, then sits, scooting a bit, as though to leave the more spacious half to Saitama. He even pats it for him, dusting the spot to make sure that it's clean. Saitama feels helpless, stripped by his obsequious student to his most basal instinct. Heat stirs through his skin. He goes to sit beside Genos, hoping he's gone about it unsexily enough that it might somehow make Genos realize that he does not actually _want_ this—with him, anyway—but Genos only looks about ten times more eager. He lies down, parting his legs, giving Saitama more than enough room to settle between him.

Shit. Okay.

He settles between him. Genos is a lot more comfortable than he could have imagined, the ferric parts of his figure warm and grooving as a human body would groove. Genos wriggles beneath him, purposefully adjusting Saitama's crotch to line under his own. Saitama swallows, looking into the glowing expectancy of Genos' stare. His chest is glowing, too, a thin orange fulgor underneath the indents.

"Have you...ever done this?" he asks.

Genos shakes his head.

"No, Sensei. You are my first."

"Okay." Saitama exhales, angling a bit to the side so that he could maybe reach down. "I'm… I need to get hard." He pauses. "Not that I'm not, but—"

Genos looks at him, nodding importantly. This couldn't get any more embarrassing.

"Do you need help?" asks Genos. He rings his thumb and index finger, thrusting his tongue against the side of his cheek.

It's obscene. Saitama tenses, blood flow stirring. He keeps his eyes on Genos, watching his expression as he skids a hand down onto his abdomen, fondling over the expanse of lace. It must be expensive. The fiber adheres to his fingers like cobweb, the plume at the fringe daintily shifting when he slips his hand between Genos' legs. His inner thighs are soft when he palms them, lifelike and quivering lightly. He wanders upward, perfectly braced for the weight of a cock to meet with his hand, but is instead greeted with nothing.

Flat. Flat and smooth and pliant. Thrill swells below Saitama's stomach. Genos is pink all over, the tip of his tongue stroking on his upper lip. Where did he learn all of this? ...What else can he learn? Saitama swallows, dandling lazy circles onto the pliable silicone. Genos twists beneath him, arms reaching out to cling around his neck. Saitama grazes lower, _firmer,_ met with soft cheeks and a good amount of moisture. And a hole. His cock throbs to attention. There is no going back.

He unclasps himself from Genos' arms, slipping out of his t-shirt and hoodie. Shorts, socks and underwear, too. He's aware of the attention he's getting, Genos having propped up on his elbows to watch the whole spectacle. His eyes are wide, a runnel of steam lifting from the vents at his back. His gaze lingers downward, bottom lip tucked between teeth.

"Sensei," he breathes. "Do you think it will fit?"

Saitama looks up. "Um. I hope so." He pauses. "If not...you know." He mimics Genos' gesture from earlier.

Genos nods fervently, lying back down. Saitama follows, hooking one of Genos' long legs onto his shoulder. He pulls him down by the hips, aligning himself with his hole.

He stops, hazily realizing that he hasn't even tried to prepare him, or attempted to look around for stuff like a bottle of lube or a condom—

"Please," whines Genos, "I _want_ it _,_ I want Sensei messing me up—"

It's enough to have Saitama get the idea. He leans, folding Genos in half. His foot dangles next to his head, steel hands immediately grasping him tight by the shoulders. He presses forward, the tip of his cock nudging against the taut crease of Genos' entrance. It's like a furnace and he's not even in yet. He swallows and starts to slowly push through, the head of his cock sliding inside with a sticky wet noise.

Genos arches beneath him, pinned in position. Saitama lets out a gasp, sinking his nose into the scent of Genos' neck. His nerves are on fire. It's just the first inch but already the flow of time has begun to compress. There is only spasming heat and Genos' slick, the hole he's been offered desperately adjusting to the breadth he is breaching it with.

"God," he hushers, "it's good…"

He drives forward, gloving his cock at least half of the way. Genos keens, biting his lip to try and repress what seems like the start of a scream. The sides of his eyes are a little bit wet, the gold in them glazy.

Saitama, if possible, only grows harder.

" _Hah_ , Sensei, d-do you—does it feel nice?"

Saitama swallows, nodding just before thrusting forward. The glide is smooth and practically effortless with the amount of lubricant Genos produces. His insides suck Saitama right in. It's hard not to hiss through the stricture of it. He seats himself against Genos' backside, rolling his hips.

Warm. So warm. Tight like a fist, except it milks on him passively. He feels he could just stay there till morning, could probably come just from being shoved this deep into Genos, but that would make his student's first time a little bit boring. He glides out, snaps in, forcing Genos to jolt on the futon. He does it again. And again, till his breathing's actually compromised.

"S-sensei, _ah_ —wh-what does it feel like...?"

"It feels," Saitama builds up a rhythm, heavy and tight. "Like…"

The tips of his ears start to burn up. Were he as flagrant as Genos, he would be able to say it: his disciple's ass feels a lot like a cunt, and it's pretty amazing. He slams in again and Genos manages to bring a hand to his cheek, unhooking his knee before pulling Saitama in with both legs. A thick burst of steam fogs through the air. It only takes about a dozen more pummeling blows to Genos' hole that Saitama starts to feel the coil of orgasm take a fluttering turn. It doesn't help that Genos is gazing at him as if he were some sort of god, docile and panting a weepy amalgam of "sensei" and "Saitama". He caresses Saitama's face, earnestly taking the fucking that is being given to him, clenching onto his cock as if knowing full well that the friction is driving him crazy.

It's difficult not wanting to know exactly how much Genos could take, would be willing to take. He wants to fuck harder. Just. So much _harder_ , wants to feel the floor crack beneath them with how fast he is really able to go. It's a task of its own, having to hold himself back, in fear that he'll break some part of Genos' body, or worse, hurt him—

" _Ahh_ —" Genos gulps at the air, tightening the grip of his legs, "S-sensei, it feels _so good_ , thank you, Sensei, thank you, more— _hahh_ —please fill me _more_ —"

Genos' eyes are rolling back (dimming?) a rindle of drool tracing down to his jaw. His mouth is slack, his thighs and arms suddenly quaking. It isn't long after that Genos starts to go lax underneath him. The irises vanish, matching the sclera. For a short, horrifying moment in time Saitama thinks that he's killed him. He pauses, ready to panic, but Genos whirrs back to life almost instantly. The gold dazzles brighter, a sequence of nonsense being told to the ceiling.

Did Genos just come…?

"—feels so good, so good, hah, I _love it so much_ —"

...It's as if he hadn't just cyborg-fainted from taking it hard in the ass.

"You're insatiable," muses Saitama.

His body tints to a blush. There...could be a lot to be done with that. Like. Having him be able to keep up with his inhuman stamina. That would be nice.

Saitama's muscles spring with constraint; it's taking a lot not to slip out and simply stuff Genos' mouth full of cock, to quiet him down, to not watch him willingly choke on it. He pulls out, choosing to be safe rather than sorry, and rolls Genos onto his stomach, spreading his thighs and bunching the lace high up on his back.

Genos seems to get the message. He adjusts his weight on his knees, lifting his (very round) backside just slightly. The black silicone seems especially malleable here, an enlivening contrast against the glistering metal. Saitama kneels to position, tugging him in by the waist. He slaps his cock on the cleft (it jiggles) then fucks him, deeply and steady, his hips barely grazing Genos' ass for an easier glide. Genos' walls accommodate him without any difficulty, the hole having loosened to embrace the considerable breadth of his cock. The thought makes Saitama's skin come alive with an itch. God. He could probably do this at least five times a day. If not more, if Genos is down for it.

Genos grasps at the futon, the left part of his face mashed into the wool of his blanket. He's liquid beneath him, limp and submissive, expelling puff after puff of sweltery exhaust.

"Sensei," he moans, "p-please... _ngh_...please come inside me."

It's so sweet and so yearning that Saitama is helpless not to feel his whole body tauten. Genos is oozing slick at this point, and it slithers down from their fucking to smear on the futon. It's hot. _He's_ hot. He sweeps in and out with his hips, focusing on the way Genos' hole swallows his cock with every wet glide, then Saitama's coming. His vision blears, a single bead of sweat tracing his jawline. He keeps going, watching the aftershocks of a particularly powerful thrust ripple all through the black synthetic skin of Genos' asscheeks. It's glorious. It's the hottest thing that he's seen. His pulse is louder than it's been in years. He lets out a staggering breath, gradually slowing, but Genos takes up rein and begins to fuck himself with restless abandon, determined to drain Saitama for all that he's worth.

"I can f-feel," snivels Genos, half-there, half-not, "I can feel your h-heartbeat, Saitama-sensei…"

It's only a whisper, yet it has Saitama flushing down to his chest. He swallows and feels sweat start to surface at the back of his neck, and it is not from their fucking.

He flips Genos onto his side, throwing a long silver leg over his shoulder, renewing the process.

 **oOo**

He has him on all fours. Then standing, rocking up and down on the wall. Then he has him lying flat on his stomach with his wrists tied with silk at his back. Then Saitama has him how they initially started, except this time they are chest-to-chest and they are kissing, sharing the same huff of air as they drink in each other's gasping expressions.

 **oOo**

Somewhere along the fracture of dawn, Saitama notices something shift itself out of the seam of Genos' futon. He cranes his neck, avoiding suspicion from the blond head bobbing up and down between his thighs.

A condom. So that's what that bump was. It glints in the light and Saitama supposes that the label is somewhat familiar. Striking green eyes and a ritzy fur coat flash through his mind.

...At least now he knows where Genos' gutsy incentive materialized from.

* * *

"Genos."

Genos looks over his shoulder. It is late in the morning and he and Saitama are lying together, spooning under the blankets. Saitama's gaze seems dozy with the afterglow of their coupling, though it is also intense. His brow is knit, as if he were insecure about something.

"What is it, Sensei?"

Saitama's throat leaps at the question.

"Back there," he answers after a moment. "Before you started freaking out. I…" He looks off to the side, half-hiding behind Genos' shoulder. "I wanted to say it, too, dude. What you said. I just..."

He trails off. Genos blinks. He thinks back.

And smiles.

"Sensei…"

He flops over to face Saitama and urgently snuggles against him. His cheek presses to Saitama's chest, his leg swinging over to tangle with Saitama's leg. He can hear the racing of his heart, clearer now than ever, the reassurance of his breath fanning in his hair, the way Saitama no longer pulls away from him.

"I am...so _happy_ , Sensei."

He closes his eyes and hopes his teacher might hold him.

Saitama does. He wraps his arm around Genos, drawing him closer.

Drizzle patters on the glass of the window. Saitama does not let him go.

Like this, thinks Genos. Like this forever.

 **oOo**

 **I'll probably end up with an epilogue somewhere along the line because I'm an excitable person. (´༎ຶ ͜ʖ ༎ຶ `)**

 **thank you to everyone who's read!**


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